
5 His Dinner for f wo 

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HIS DINNER FOR TWO 



B Come&ietta in ©ne Bet 



BY 

FRANKLIN JOHNSTON 



Copyright, 1913, by Dick & Fitzgerald 



NEW YORK 
DICK & FITZGERALD 

18 Ann Street 



4 His Dinner for Two 

He (drawing the curtain of the book-case)' Not one. 

She (slowly drawing off a wedding ring — the only ring she 
wears). There's still this. (Holds it towards him) 

He. Your wedding ring! (He takes it, kisses it, and 
taking her hand, slips the ring on her finger again. She look- 
ing away from him) Never. (He walks slowly e. She stands 
l. c. A pause, then Both turn towards each other and sigh) 

She. Well? 

He. Well? 

She. To-morrow's Sunday. If we sleep late enough we 
won't need any breakfast. We dine out, and if we go to bed 
early enough we won't need any supper. 

He. That carries us to Monday. If something doesn't turn 
up in Monday's mail we must 

She. Must what? 

He. Borrow. 

She. Borrow? At last we've come to that. But we've held 
out a long time, haven't we, dear? (Lays her head on his 
shoulder) 

He. A very long time. But Monday isn't here yet. 

She ( leaving him ) . If we must borrow, we'll borrow from my 
relatives. I've brought you poverty and worry, but I won't 
make your relatives suffer too. (Goes up stage and stands 
with back to the audience) 

He. Nonsense ! It's all my fault. Besides, I've robbed your 
relatives of you. You wouldn't have me take all their riches. 

She (turning as though struck with a sudden thought). 
Borrow from both families! 

He (smiling). Bather impartial. 

She. Have I been partial to you? 

He. You've been altogether too good to me. 

She. Perhaps. Haven't you anything that looks salable? 
Anything important? 

He. Well, Alexander Hiller, the young Hercules of the pub- 
lishing business, has a long piece of mine which he likes, but 
seems a bit afraid of. He said he would take it home and ask 
his wife's opinion. I suppose she's used it for curl papers by 
this time. 

She. When will he let you know? 

He. It's uncertain. I suppose I might drop in at his office 
now. He's usually alone and in a good humor at this hour. 

She. Yes, why don't you go now? I'll get dinner ready 
while you're gone. But let me see your cuffs. (He holds out 
his arms and She looks at his cuffs) Yes, they need a little 



His Dinner for Two 5 

attention. (Picks up scissors from the table and starts to trim 
the edges of his cuffs) 

He. It's a burning shame that you have to do all this house- 
work. Those hands were never meant to cook for an idle, able- 
bodied man like me. Why shouldn't I do the cooking occa- 
sionally ? 

She. If you did the cooking, my dear, we'd both starve. 
Stop worrying about your wife, (Satirically) your poor, un- 
happy, abused wife. (Heaves a mock sigh) 

He. Dolly, you're a ray of sunshine. (Interrupts the trim- 
ming by taking her hands and squeezing them) 

She (after a little gasp at the force of the embrace). Moon- 
shine. (Pushes aside his hands and goes on with the trim- 
ming) Ah, I almost forgot. I want you to post a letter for 
me. (Finishes the trimming and replaces the scissors on the 
table) 

He (pulling his sleeve doivn over his cuffs). That's another 
stamp gone. 

She (adjusting Ms tie). I know, but I've two more left; 
besides, I'm writing to Bessie. 

He. Great Scott! You haven't asked her to dinner again? 

She. No, but I'm going to the very next time you sell a 
poem. 

He. I sent a little humorous bit to Life yesterday. I should 
say it would make a very nice little dinner for three. 

She (Takes a pen-holder from table, dips the top of it in ink- 
well and rubs the ink on a spot on his coat). That's good. 
Dear me, you really must get a new suit. But you can't afford 
it now — you had your hair cut yesterday. 

He. If I had that hair here now I'd eat it. 

She. Eat it? 

He. I mean, I'd spend the money for food. 

She (gayly). You have no excuse for being hungry. Your 
poetical imagination ought to be able to call up before you 
feasts fit for a king — or a queen. 

He. It's vivid, I admit, but it has its limitations. 

She. Now, if you'll wait a moment I'll finish that letter. 
(Going to c. d.) 

He. You ought to hate me for bringing you down to this 
poverty. 

She. Are you sorry? 

He. No. 

She (standing in c. d.). Neither am I. (Smiles back at 
him. EXIT c. d.) 



g His Dinner for Two 

He. (looking after her. Softly). Dolly! (Pause. Comes 
down stage, looking at his watch) You go Monday, old boy. 
Five o'clock. Just time to catch Hiller and get back to dinner. 
Dinner — I wonder if we have anything for dinner! Hang it, 
I'm going to find out. (EXIT l. d., whistling. Whistling is 
heard for a few moments, then suddenly ceases. After a pause. 
RE-ENTER He l. d.) One chop — one solitary chop — and a 
few unhappy potatoes! Not enough for one sick child, let 
alone two healthy adults. Dinner ; both hungry ; both pretend- 
ing not to be ; each urging the other to eat the chop ; chop get- 
ting cold ; finally divide the chop — just enough to make us both 
famishing. Dolly retires to weep, and I to swear and draw on 
a pipe that hasn't had any tobacco in it for three days. (Sits 
on table) If publishers weren't such stingy fools ! 

ENTER She c. d., with a letter. 

She (handing him the letter). Now, don't forget that. Wait 
while I get your hat. 

He. Why should you get it? 

She. Because I want to. [EXIT e. d. 

He (walking about). Two hearts that beat as one. One 
chop that — something's got to be done about dinner. Like 
as not she'll make me eat the whole chop and go hungry her- 
self. (Musing) This is one of those problems easier for a 
novelist than a scribbler of verse. Let's see, now. (Pause) 
Ah, hah! That's it! I'll not come home to dinner. I'll tell 
Dolly I have an engagement to dine out. I'll take a long walk 
and compose a hymn to starvation, a sonnet to a chop. It won't 
be the first time I've dined on bread and water, without the 
bread. 

ENTER She e. d., with hat and gloves which she gives to him. 

She. There you are. (Putting her arms about his neck) 
You'll think of me all the while you're gone? And you won't 
look at any other girls? And you'll be back soon? 

He (hemming to hide his embarrassment). Er — er — Well, 
I'm afraid I won't be back soon. In fact, I find I can't be home 
to dinner to-night. (She slowly withdraws from him, looking 
at him reproachfully. He looks guilty and embarrassed) 

She. You won't be home to dinner? (Very coldly) Oh! 
(She sits on sofa, l. d., petulant, but not disagreeably so) 

He (after a pause). No, I promised to dine with a couple 
of friends. (Draws on gloves) 



His Dinner for Two y 

She (rising eagerly). Well, of course I'm invited too? 

He. No. You see, they're Bohemians, — bachelor Bohemians. 

She. Still, I don't think they ought to come between hus- 
band and wife. Why, Jack, we haven't been separated like 
this since we were married. 

He. I know, dearest, but I'm afraid I must go. 

She. I think you might have declined the invitation. 

He. Why, how could I, dear? 

She. Can't you break the engagement? 

He. No, my friends would be disappointed. 

She. Why? They don't expect to eat you. Jack, I believe 
you'd really rather go with them than spend the evening alone 
with me. 

He. You know better than that. I'd rather not go, but 
friends are friends, even if one is married. (Aside) Con- 
found it, I'm only making matters worse. It won't work. I'll 
have to stay. 

She (weakening) . I was only thinking of myself. 

He. But if you wish it, why of course I'll stay. (Puts hat 
on table and begins to remove gloves) I'll see Hiller on 
Monday. 

She (rushing forward and kissing him). Ah, you dear! 
Now I'll cook you a charming little dinner for two. 

He (aside). Dinner for two! (With forced enthusiasm) 
Ah, yes, a charming little dinner for two. 

She (going towards l. d., then stopping and thinking, comes 
back to him) But, yet, no. That would be selfish. You were 
right and I was wrong. It was very selfish of me to try to 
keep you at home when you wanted to have a little amuse- 
ment with your friends. 

He. I wasn't going for amusement, I was going from a 
sense of duty. I don't want to go; you don't want me to 
go; I won't go. (Takes off gloves and throws them on table) 

She. Oh, but you must, dear. 

He. But I don't want to. 

She. You'll want to after you get started. Why, just 
think, you'll get something to eat cooked by a real cook, not 
by an amateur like your homely little wife. 

He. Now, why do you call yourself homely? 

She. Just to hear you deny it, stupid. But you must hurry 
or you'll be late. (Hands him hat and gloves) 

He. Hang it, Dolly, I think I'd better stay. 

She. You go and have a nice time, and you'll like me all 



g His Dinner for Two 

the better. If you don't see other people once in a while 
you'll grow tired of me, if you haven't already. 

He. Dolly ! 

She. I thought I could entertain you alone, but — don't 
worry about me, I'll have a lovely time. 

He. What will you do? 

She. Read — or something. (Both at c. d.) What time 
will you be back? I want to count the minutes. 

He. Say eight o'clock. (Aside) I forgot about the time. 

She. Eight o'clock! Why, Jack, you're not going to leave 
your hosts right after the feast, are you? That would be 
dreadfully rude. 

He (with significant looh to audience). I meant nine 
o'clock. 

She (dryly). I shall expect you about twelve. 

He (aside). I'll have to take a mighty long walk to keep 
this game up. 

She. Good-bye, dear. 

He. Good-bye, little one. (They hiss) [EXIT c. d. 

She. Oh, Jack! 

He (off stage). Yes? (He reappears at c. d. They hiss 
again) [EXIT c. d. 

She (at c. d., loohing after him); Poor, dear Jack! (Comes 
slowly down stage, trying to control her emotion. Brushes 
away a tear, then another, then several, then bursts into tears t 
sinhs into chair by table, and cries for a few moments, then 
starts up) What are you crying about, you silly little fool? 
As though Jack were growing tired of you ! I'm getting to be 
a jealous, suspicious old cat. (Walhs about) Of course he 
loves me as much as ever. Anyone can see that, but — does he? 
(Sits) It's my fault — I ought to have been born rich. I 
ought to have money to lay at my husband's feet. Then we 
could go out a bit. Money to go to the theatre, "money for 
clothes, so I shouldn't always look the same to him. (Rising) 
Money for servants — my hands are getting red with house- 
work, red and large, and — Oh! (With a sob) he'll hate me 
pretty soon. (Walhs to c. d., and looks off. Then slowly 
down stage again) And yet — Oh, I'm sure he still loves me 
as much as ever, or nearly as much. I know he didn't really 
want to go to-night. Jack can't deceive me. (Walhs about) 
I don't want any dinner to-night, I feel — oh, I'm a horrid, 
jealous old thing and ought to feel ashamed of myself — im- 
agining a lot of nonsense about poor, dear Jack. (Pichs up 
manuscript from table) Some of Jack's manuscript. (Kisses 



His Dinner for Two 9 

it. Reads title) " Modern Marriages." An essay. Modern 
marriages? What a funny thing for Jack to write about. 
(Tosses her head) As though he knew anything about it! 
(Sits at table, reading) "No subject is more generally dis- 
cussed" — (skipping pages) um-um-um-um. "A common 
source of danger — a common source of danger is a marriage 
in which the contracting parties are too young, too sentimental 
and too romantic to live happily on a small income ; too young 
to realize that the glamour of love must soon wear out, and 
too inexperienced to adapt themselves successfully to the new 
order of things." (Drops the manuscript slowly on table) 
Then it's true — he is tired of me, and my poor little dream is 
over. So soon ! Jack ! Jack ! ( She buries her head in her 
hands on the table, sobbing. A moment's pause) 

He (off stage, excitedly). Dolly! (ENTERS excitedly, c. d. 
Stops short on seeing Dolly, and the look of joy on his face 
turns to one of sympathy) Why, Dolly, there isn't anything 
wrong, is there? You're not crying? 

She (straightening up and trying to look cheerful). No. 
(Forcing a yawn) I was almost asleep. 

He. What is it, Dolly? Hang it, something's wrong. 

She. Why, no. (Forcing a smile) Nothing — what put 
that into your head? (Almost weeping) Nothing at all. 
(Hysterically) Oh, I think I hear the chops boiling. 

[EXIT quickly, l. d. 

He. She thinks she hears the chops boiling! (Flings hat 
on so fa and dashes after her) [EXIT l. d. 

ENTER She, c. d. 

He (off stage). Dolly! (She starts towards l. d., "but 
stops as He ENTERS l. d.) 

She (innocently). Did you call, dear? 

He. Won't you tell me what's wrong, dearest? 

She. If you weren't so thick-headed you would guess. But 
what about your friends? (Pouting) Of course they're more 
important than I am? 

He (impulsively). Dolly! You don't mean that. (Ten- 
derly) Did you really think I preferred their company to 
yours? (Starts to embrace her) 

She (holding him at bay). No, wait a minute. Did you 
come back because you pitied me, or because you 

He. Because I love you. (She is about to fling herself 
into his arms ivhen she suddenly checks herself, remembering 
the manuscript) 



20 His Dinner for Two 

She. Oh, I almost forgot. No, Jack, I'm sorry, but I can't 
believe you. You came back out of pity. Don't try to de- 
ceive me. You know you never could. 

He (significant look to audience). Of course not, dear. But 
upon my honor I came back purely out of 

She (warningly) Jack! 

He. Why no, by Jove, I didn't either. 

She. Just as I said. 

He {hastily). No, no. Let me explain, Dolly 

She. Don't try to. I quite understand. 

He. But, Dolly, you don't 

She. Oh, yes, I do. I've been reading this. (Holds up 
manuscript) 

He (taking it without looking at it). If you'll give me a 
chance, I'll tell you what I did come back for. 

She (quietly, but shaking her forefinger at him). You came 
back because your conscience pricked you. But you'll be 
hardened next time and then your conscience won't prick. 
(Turns away) I was fool enough to think you would al- 
ways be a lover — at least as long as we were both young — 
(Turns facing him) and fool enough to think you would rather 
spend the evening with me than with your roistering, drunken, 
Bohemians. (Turns away with arms folded, and tapping floor 
with her toe) 

He (somewhat amazed). Dolly, it isn't like you to talk like 
this. (Throws manuscript on table) 

She (penitently, facing him, hands folded). I know it's 
my fault. I shouldn't have allowed you to marry me. You're 
too good for me. You're a genius and I'm only a poor, com- 
monplace woman, but I'll always love you, even if — if you — 
you — (Turns her head aside, sobbing) 

He (catching her in his arms). You're an angel, dearest! 
But I'm only a poor fool of a would-be poet who brings pov- 
erty and sorrow on his wife because he isn't practical enough 
to keep books or sell dry-goods. (Breaks away) But listen. 
(Seriously) I deceived you about that engagement this even- 
ing. I found that there wasn't enough in the flat for both of 
us to dine to-night, so I thought I would go without for once. 
I made up the story about the Bohemians, the drunken rois — 
(She stops his mouth with her hand) 

She. Jack, you're a — but, Oh, explain that ! ( Takes manu- 
script from table and holds it up before him) 

He. " Modern Marriages "? Oh, that's young Garret's manu- 
script. He asked me to criticise it. 



His Dinner for Two \\ 

She. And I kissed it! (Flings it on floor) Can you for- 
give me? 

He. There isn't anything to forgive. (He gives her a wild 
embrace) 

She (sighs). I was almost afraid we were going to have a 
quarrel. But didn't you have something you wanted to tell 
me? 

He (dryly). Yes, I have been trying to tell you a bit of 
news, good news. 

She. Has your uncle ? 

He. No. He's still in excellent health. But I've been 
offered the position 

She. You accepted it? 

He. Yes. 

She Ah! (Sighs in relief) 

He. Of literary critic of " Manning's Weekly," at a salary 
of fifty dollars per week. 

She. Oh, Jack, it seems wicked to have so much money. 

He. Wicked? 

She (excitedly). Oh! I don't know what I am saying. 
It's so suddenly lovely, so — (Calmly) You can have a new 
suit. 

He. And you, new dresses. 

She. Cigars. 

He. Hats all around. 

She. And, Oh Jack! I'm starving. 

He. So am I. I borrowed part of my salary in advance. 
So let's dine out to-night. Some quiet, inexpensive little place. 

She. Glorious! (Begins to put on her hat and coat) 

He. Then the theatre. 

She. Don't! I'll cry for joy if you keep on. 

He (picking up manuscript). Poor Garret's manuscript. 

She. Don't you think you'd better tell young Garrett to 
stick to the drug business — or get married? 

He. Why, I haven't read it yet. 

She. And you love me as much as ever? 

He. Far more. 

She. And you're not sorry? 

He. No ! 

She (whispering). Neither am I. (She gives him a "but- 
terfly" kiss, and the curtain falls as they EXIT c. d.) 



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WHITE LIE. 4Acts; 2% hours 4 3 

WESTERN PLAYS 

25 CENTS EACH 

ROCKY FORD. 4 Acts; 2 hours 8 3 

GOLDEN GULCH. 3 Acts; 2J4 hours 11 3 

RED ROSETTE. 3Acts; 2 hours 6 3 

MISS MOSHER OF COLORADO. 4 Acts; 2^ hours. ... 5 3 

STUBBORN MOTOR CAR. 3 Acts; 2 hours; 1 Stage Setting 7 4 

CRAWFORD'S CLAIM. (15 cents.) 3 Acts; 2M hours. 9 3 

DICK & FITZGERALD, Publishers, 18 Ann Street, N. Y. 



